


the bearded stranger

by juliusschmidt



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [4]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Magical Realism, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9451184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: Harry wakes up to a bearded stranger in his bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> warning: debatably sticky consent issues and the pairing tag might be slightly misleading 
> 
> thank you, e, for the beta. you're a champ! i still don't have an answer to the question, 'what the fuck is this?'

The soft, glistening melody of his mobile alarm draws Harry out of sleep. His eyes blink open and he takes in his white washed ceiling with a smile. This morning he’s had enough sleep to revel in the coziness of his covers and the sunlight streaming in from his east-facing windows. 

Except then the melody begins its second repeat, this time just loud enough to scrape Harry’s nerves and he reaches out, grabbing for the damn thing to shut it off. 

His hand misses the bedside table. He stretches, back cracking, but his fingers just don’t quite reach. 

_Holy fuck_. 

Those are the wrong tattoos. 

Did he drunkenly tattoo a whole slew of new shit onto his arm in the wee hours of the morning? Wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried. 

He closes his eyes and thinks back to the night before, out at the pub, competing over cute boys with Emilia. He’d only had the two beers. Could someone have slipped him something? 

But, no, that’s not possible either. By the time he’d made it back to his flat, he’d felt completely sober and, sadly, completely alone. 

(Emilia had been more lucky, sending him a snap of the London skyline from her catch’s upscale loft. Fuck her.

The man- who’d they’d nicknamed ‘Blue Shirt’ the moment they’d noticed him noticing them- had approached them with a cheeky wink to Harry and opened with an admission of his secret love of One Direction, whose latest hit was playing over the pub’s soundsystem. 

Harry’d felt confident he’d be the one to score. 

Despite the man’s apparently unfeigned love of Louis Tomlinson and his amazing, insurable ass, a love shared by both Emilia and Harry, he revealed soon enough that he was more interested in Emilia’s fluttering eyelashes than Harry’s knock-knock jokes. Sad.) 

Harry shakes the blankets off, shivers violently, and inspects the offending limb. 

It’s not his. 

It is literally not his arm. It’s too short and too tan. The hairs on it are too fair and too fine. It’s covered in the wrong fucking tattoos. So, he realizes, is his other arm. 

He looks down to check out his chest and stomach but is distracted when something tickles the base of his throat. He brings a hand to his face. 

Fuck. 

He has a beard. _Finally_. He’s living the _fucking_ dream. 

Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s dreaming. He pinches the rope tattooed on his wrist and winces. 

He pulls at his vest, remembering his earlier instinct to check his chest. He realizes that this is the first thing he should have noticed. He always sleeps naked. Always. 

His chest piece seems familiar. His whole (wrong) body is familiar. It seems like he’s woken up inside Lo-

He texts Emilia, _Did we take drugs last night?_

The reply is nearly immediate, _Fuck no. I won’t even smoke weed with you an_ y _more because last time we did you got super worried that aliens had found you and locked yourself in the toilet for two hours._

Harry sends her the banana emoji. Clearly, she’s not going to be any help. 

He sighs and it just _sounds_ wrong. 

Maybe he should try talking. “Maybe I should try talking.” 

He gasps and then, slaps a hand over his mouth. Fuck, that’s really fucking weird.

He throws his legs over the side of the bed. They are so short. Cute. Butnot nearly long enough to be useful. 

Now the only question is, if Louis Tomlinson’s body is in Harry’s flat, where is Harry’s body? 

On a whim, he texts Emilia, _Where’s 1d playing tonight?_

She replies, _Manchester._

Harry gazes into Louis’ blue eyes in the mirror. He writes back, _wanna go?_

He reaches up to touch his chin, fingertips tingling at the rub of the coarse hair beneath them. It’s kind of itchy. And then, as soon as he’s had the thought, he realizes that, actually, it’s _really_ itchy. His eyes flick to his razor, which peers back hopefully over the edge of the cup that holds his toothbrush and toothpaste, eager to be used on actual hair. 

He shakes his head. He can’t shave off someone else’s beard without asking them. That’s just rude. He’d be pretty unhappy if someone shaved off _his_ beard without asking. If he had one, that is. 

On the counter, his phone buzzes. _I wish you’d said something sooner. We’ll never get tickets now._

Harry narrows Louis’ eyes, thinking. He texts back, _Pretty sure I can get us in._

His phone begins to buzz and he swipes to answer. “Morning Emilia.” 

The line is silent. 

So Harry continues, “Well? Do you want to go to the show tonight or what?” 

“Oh my god,” Emilia says. “How the fuck…” 

“It’s nearly noon. I’m going to Manchester for the show. Are you coming with me or not?” 

“Is this some kind of _joke_? Put Harry on right the fuck now. I need to cuss him out.”

Harry laughs. It’s a strange sound, like tin cans clacking together merrily. Harry likes it. “This _is_ Harry.” 

“No, it isn’t. We talk everyday. I know what Harry sounds like over the phone and his voice is about ten times more morbid than yours. You sound like- _fuck_. Tell Harry to stop being an asshole. I’m sorry for stealing Blue Shirt from him last night. Though obviously he made his own friend.” 

“I swear to God this is Harry. The same Harry that cleaned up after you accidentally pissed yourself on the way back from my birthday party last year.” 

“What the- I can’t believe he told someone about that. I’m going to fucking kill him.” Emilia hangs up. 

Harry sighs. He’s going to have to do this alone then. 

Except then, his phone buzzes with a text. _I don’t know who you have with you or how you figured out how to mimic Louis Tomlinson’s voice, but I do know that after tonight you might owe me one million pounds._

Another text comes through, _Because that’s how much you bet me that Louis Tomlinson would want to fuck you the moment he met you._

And another, _We probably won’t be able to get in, let alone meet him, but the possibility is definitely worth the day trip. One million pounds or Louis Tomlinson’s hard cock._

Harry reads the last sentence. Once. Twice. Three times. He sucks in a breath and glances down his chest, past the waistline of his boxers, to the tent that’s forming inside them. 

_You’ve already lost,_ Harry texts back. 

_Fuck off you’ve never seen or touched Louis’ Tomlinson’s prick._

She’s not wrong. Yet. Harry sets his phone aside.

He palms Louis’ cock through his boxers. It’s wrong. Way more rude than shaving. Although, Harry can’t say that he wouldn’t want Louis Tomlinson to do the same were he trapped in Harry’s body. 

Maybe if he doesn’t look, pretends it’s his own cock, that will make it better, less invasive. 

He squeezes it and, no, there’s no pretending that it’s his own. The heft is different and under Harry’s touch Louis swells until he’s slightly thicker than Harry himself. 

Louis Tomlinson, Harry’s brain supplies helpfully, is a grower, not a shower. 

Harry’s fist clenches around the length, the fabric of the boxers doing nothing to disguise the heat of him. His heart pounds in his chest and he can feel the thrum of Louis’ pulse. 

He must be dreaming. The rope pinching, the conversation with Emilia, the _beard_ , all part of the same elaborate sleep-fucked fantasy. 

And if he’s dreaming, then there’s really no harm in taking a peek. He lets go of Louis’ cock and slides the boxers down over his hips. They drop to the floor and he steps out of them. 

He looks at himself in the mirror first, holding his arms at his side. Louis’ cock is more pink than red and the tip of it glistens. 

Harry sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. 

He’s doing this. He’s really doing this. It’s fine; no one will ever know. Or at least that’s what he tells himself as he opens his eyes and reaches back down. 

This time his grip is firm, and the pressure sends a shock through him. He hisses out a broken breath. Louis’ blue irises have turned to black. 

Harry strips Louis’ cock with quick strokes. It’s just how Harry likes it, his tugs building friction that sends heat skittering up through his cock.

After a moment, he stills. 

His breathing is ragged, the tone of it a higher pitched drag that he expects, and so much sexier than his usual gravelly panting. 

But Louis’ cock smarts and not in good way. Harry swallows, watching Louis’ adam’s apple bob. Louis’ cock must be more sensitive than his own. He must not like it this rough.

Harry needs lube. He sees a white bottle on the shelf above his toilet, and pumps out a button of smooth white lotion into his palm. The moment the slick of it touches Louis’ skin, he groans, and the echo of the unfamiliar sex noise, skitters down his spine, making his cock twitch in his hand. 

Yeah, _that’s_ how Louis likes it: wet. 

His fist glides faster now, a smoother heat that sets him trembling so hard that he has to lean his free hand against the sink so as not to fall over.

Louis’ eyelashes- they’re _so_ long, how did he never notice that before?!- flutter, eyes almost closing, but Harry forces them to stay open. He doesn’t want to miss this. 

His orgasm is building, slowly, Harry chasing it with fast fingers but not quite catching up to it. Curious, eager to test a theory, Harry reaches behind himself, pressing a dry fingertip against Louis’ hole. 

Another moan escapes, this one louder, and Harry pushes harder, though still not quite inside. 

But it’s enough. His body connects with the orgasm full on, and he shudders, shaking with the force of the impact for a moment before Louis’ cock begins to spill over his fingers. 

Harry rides it out, letting the shudders die and his breathing even, eyes remaining hot on the image in the mirror.

Finally, he peels his hand, sticky with come, off Louis’ cock and rinses it in the sink. 

As he stands under the heat of the showerhead, he thinks, “I did it. I touched Louis Tomlinson’s dick. _His ass_.” 

Louis’ cock gives an idle twitch at the thought and Harry reaches down, considering a second round. 

A loud series of knocks pull him out of his reverie. Emilia must’ve rushed over.

He ties a towel around his waist and answers the door. 

“Christ, calm _down_ , will you?” Harry tells her, before adding, “Come on in. I’ve just got to put some clothes on.” 

Emilia does not come in. Her jaw drops. “Louis Tomlinson,” she says. “You’re Louis Tomlinson.” 

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. Fringe falls into his eyes and he brushes it away. 

“Listen, I know you. I’ve been a fan of yours since I was sixteen years old. I know your tattoos better than I know my own. Oh my god.” 

“I’m really not Louis Tomlinson,” Harry presses, but before he can explain further, she mutters, “How did he _possibly_ win this bet? That lucky _bastard_.” 

“Harry,” she calls, looking over Harry’s shoulder and into the apartment. “I don’t have a million pounds. You know I don’t. I cannot believe you!” 

More softly, she says, “Oh my god. This is a dream. This must be a fucking dream.” 

“You’re telling me,” Harry replies in Louis’ voice, even though he’s pretty sure that it’s not a dream at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is supposed to be a tumblr quickwrite, so i'm closing it up and walking away. 
> 
> BUT 
> 
> someone else should write 20k+ of this (from louis' perspective, ideally). i will send you celebratory emojis, like champagne and cake and double hearts.
> 
>    
> [tumblr post](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/156314873535/the-bearded-stranger)
> 
> ETA: [Louis' POV, (Make You Want To) Scream by Lululawrence](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/21574805)


End file.
